Catharsis
by carrioncomfort
Summary: Bobby always hits his target. That doesn't mean he wants to.
1. Default Chapter

The Italian restaurant, usually so quiet, was crowded tonight with a large group of middle aged Franfurters. Why they picked this restaurant on this night was anyone's guess. Thank the faltering national economy and the fall of the dollar against the Euro.  
  
Bobby managed to get a table because cops apparently took precedence over German tourists. Also, the proprietor had survived fascism in Italy, so German money wasn't as welcome as it might have been. Regular guests, however, also seemed to carry some weight. The waiter - his favorite cute waitress had quit to get married and move to Jersey - leaned over diffidently and asked if he would mind sharing a table with a young woman who was also dining alone. Bobby was tempted to refuse, but when the waiter supplied an unsolicited endorsement of the woman's good looks, he decided it might be a pleasant diversion. If nothing else, it would give him some other innocent bystander to observe. He'd seen enough Germans in the army.  
  
His gaze followed the waiter to the front. The waiter tapped a young woman of average height on the shoulder and whispered something in her ear. He watched as her head, covered in a black scarf, nodded, and she turned, unbuttoning her jacket and tugging off the scarf.  
  
She revealed herself, a young woman with pretty-plain features, brown eyes, and curly hair in three or four shades of blonde that were too odd and random to have been the result of even the most unfortunate highlighting mishap. Pleasant face, decent figure disguised by loose fitting sweater and old blue jeans. And sadness etched into every line of her face.  
  
But he was projecting now. He'd already done this character study. 


	2. Chapter 2

6 Months Earlier  
  
9AM Friday, July 29th.  
  
"The name is Karen Baldwin. Caucasian, 30. She's from Nebraska. We already asked for . . ."  
  
The faint smell of burnt flesh was barely noticeable, a marked difference from his other "crispy critter" cases. The detective who had been in charge prior to their arrival was providing a running commentary that Goren wasn't paying attention to anymore. He'd heard that Andy Michaels was smart, but she had an annoying personality. Hopefully, Eames was keeping track.  
  
Goren took in the hotel's ambiance as he brushed past a few stray firemen and CSU guys. Threadbare carpet in 1975 brown and orange, dingy walls criss-crossed with cracks and water stains. At least he hoped they were water stains. The scent of cheap perfume and sex provided a fitting counterpoint to the scent of smoldering mildew and burnt flesh. They stepped off the staircase and into a hall that was, encouragingly, occupied by only two crime scene investigators. The open door directly across revealed the scene; scorched carpet around blackened bed, the body of what had once been a thirty year old woman with dirty blonde hair in the center, all soaked with water. A ruined scene, as far as he was concerned. Now he would have to rely on the specialists to process the information for him.  
  
Without comment, Goren moved forward, past the photographer, who took the hint and began taking snapshots of the rest of the room. He looked at the woman's face, which was only minimally scorched near the neck. Features might once have been pretty, but even with the ravages of the fire, he could tell she'd lived a hard life. He looked at her arms, bound to the headboard with handcuffs.  
  
"So why didn't the sprinklers come on?" Eames peaked in the bathroom.  
  
"I know this'll shock you, but the proprietor turned the system off five years ago. Too many false alarms for crack pipes, I guess. His life's about to become very uncomfortable," quipped Andy.  
  
Bobby tilted his head, examining the body from every angle. Her wrists and arms were unbruised, the shoulders unstrained. "She didn't struggle much when she was on fire. Or before."  
  
"Yeah, well," Andy supplied, "we found two empty fifths of cheap bourbon. The liquor store owner says she bought them last night. She was toasted before she got toasted."  
  
Bobby sniffed the bed. "The bourbon was the accelerant. And this," he pointed to a small pool of wax, barely noticeable. "A candle."  
  
"That and this is why we called you guys." She handed Goren a clear evidence bag containing a letter written in small, neat handwriting. "My captain about shit a brick when he heard the name."  
  
"What name?" Eames asked, trying to read over her partner's shoulder. Failing miserably of course. He was too damn tall.  
  
Andy answered. "Ben Baldwin. You remember Detective Moreno? He, his wife, his brother-in-law got turned into roadkill six months ago? His sister-in-law was the only survivor. Baldwin was her husband."  
  
"He was a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist." Goren said offhandedly, giving the letter to Eames. "He just had a book come out."  
  
"Cop, socialite, acclaimed journalist. It was a huge story. Special people, special cops." Andy shrugged and walked away.  
  
Eames handed the letter back to Goren. "I don't get it. If she was killed because of blackmail, why didn't the killer burn the letter?"  
  
Goren scowled. There was only one possibility, but it didn't make  
sense either.  
  
"And why burn her? It's overkill," Eames added.  
  
Goren turned to leave the scene. "We need to talk to Amy Baldwin."  
  
"Wife?" Eames asked.  
  
"Sister." 


	3. Chapter 3

11AM  
  
Goren pressed the bell, than stepped back, surveying the hallway, taking in every detail. It was mostly a show, even if Eames was his only audience. Park Avenue apartment buildings all had really nice and really impersonal hallways, decorated like living rooms in a museum to the fabulously wealthy. It offered no insight into the inhabitants, except that they were fabulously wealthy. Or screwing somebody who was fabulously wealthy. Now if the apartment itself were decorated the same way . . .  
  
A young woman, presumably the person who'd given the doorman permission to let them come up, answered the door. For a moment, even Goren was a little surprised. Five-six-ish, odd colored hair pulled back in a not-very- flattering ponytail, tattered cardigan over tank top and faded pajama bottoms, no makeup, and no fake welcoming smile. She did not fit here. He met her brown eyes and noticed the sadness. Controlled, even resolute, but pervasive nonetheless. She had suffered greatly and recently, the bones jutting out at the base of her neck testimony to sudden weight loss - this, he felt sure, was not a woman who typically looked so waifish. In fact, he could dimly recall the pictures in the paper and on the television. Amy Baldwin looking pale and stricken, but definitely several pounds heavier.  
  
She stood with one hand on the doorknob, the other hanging loosely at her side. "Yes?"  
  
"Miss Baldwin?" Eames asked politely.  
  
"Yes. How can I help you?" Her voice was calm and even, unlike most people who, when confronted with police officers, started getting nervous and dry mouthed, worried that some of their mundane sins had come back to haunt them.  
  
Bobby spoke up, haltingly. "I'm Detective Goren, this is my partner, Detective Eames. Can we come in?" He was bent forward, subtly wedging himself in.  
  
Only his practiced eye saw the slight widening of the eyes, the extra swallow. Apprehension. Fear.  
  
"What's this about?" Her voice had become more serious, but there was no detectable tremor or hesitation.  
  
"It's really better if we talk inside." Detective Eames supplied soothingly. But Miss Baldwin was not looking at the other woman. She watched Bobby. It was him she sized up before shrugging and turning, leaving the door open.  
  
The apartment was a large duplex with hardwood floors and crown molding. As she led them through the front room, a large light drenched room with a grand piano, oriental rug, comfortable looking furniture, and tasteful modern artwork and photographs, Bobby tried to get her to slow down by stopping to study one of the pictures, but she and Eames proceeded through a side hallway, Eames glaring at him over her shoulder.  
  
She led them into a smaller, bookshelf-lined sitting room, with a television and old - not be confused with antique - sofa and armchairs. She motioned for them to sit, which they did before realizing that she would remain standing. Bobby was almost certain this was unconscious. She had her arms folded over her stomach, but otherwise exhibited no sign of nervousness.  
  
Eames started. "Miss Baldwin, do you know a Karen Baldwin?"  
  
A muted look of relief washed over the woman's face and she relaxed her arms. "Oh, her. What did she tell you?" She sounded mildly annoyed.  
  
"Tell us?" Bobby asked, standing up and beginning to survey the bookshelves, tilting his head to read the titles.  
  
"Yeah, she's my cousin. She came here three days ago, trying to blackmail me. It's bullshit. Provably, if you want to . . ."  
  
"Karen Baldwin's body was found at her hotel this morning." Bobby said, glancing surreptitiously to see the woman's reaction to his blunt announcement.  
  
"Oh." The woman said, face completely blank. "Oh. I'm sorry to hear that." She sat heavily in a nearby armchair.  
  
"Most people would be relieved," Eames supplied.  
  
Miss Baldwin shot them both withering looks. "I didn't like Karen, but I remember her from before she became what she was. Besides," she added in an undertone, "I don't have much family left. It's never good news to hear another one's gone."  
  
Bobby, whose examination of the shelves was proving confusing - how could you profile someone with Advanced Microbiology sitting between Where the Sidewalk Ends and Immanuel Kant? - turned. "Yeah, your brother, your in- laws. It's getting dangerous being your relative."  
  
Her jaw dropped. Arrow had hit target and, as he sometimes did, Bobby felt like shit. Reference to the recent accident, which was, after all the reason this was a major case and not a minor inconvenience, struck a raw nerve. Even Bobby had been affected when he had read the news clippings six months previous. While other officers had mourned the deaths of the detective and his wife, a popular physician and socialite, Ben Baldwin had been the loss Bobby had felt. He would miss the journalist's dry wit, compelling articles, keen eye for human weakness and compassion for society's victims. Last month, the book Ben had been working on, based on his Pulitzer Prize winning article about an Atlanta detective, had been published to rave reviews. The publisher had gotten considerable mileage out of the tragedy and out of the image of the bereft sister, throwing herself into the task of finishing her brother's book so it could be published on schedule.  
  
Amy Baldwin had been left all alone, the guardian of her brother's memory. And he had just rubbed salt in the wound.  
  
He felt like shit, but not enough so to backpedal and apologize. He was half convinced she'd done the deed, which was about a quarter less than he'd been when he and Eames had walked in. He found himself hoping he'd provoke her into convincing him of the opposite.  
  
"That's . . . cruel," she said through clenched teeth, staring down at her feet. "My brother . . . that's cruel."  
  
Cruel, but effective. Bobby was glad she wasn't the hysterical type. She clearly tended to underreaction, a state that left her able to be questioned but too distracted, hopefully, to dissemble effectively. He continued to peruse the shelves, picking up a photograph of Amy with her brother and their in laws. She and Ben had the same understated, slightly hesitant smile. Expecting the next blow to fall.  
  
Eames looked disapproving. Cool it, her glance seemed to say, let's draw this thing out some more. "What my partner meant to say is that he's sorry you've lost so much."  
  
Amy did not look convinced, but she also did not comment. Her eyes still followed Goren's movements. Follow the bouncing ball and you'll know what words to say.  
  
"Have you called Karen's father? I have his number somewhere . . ."  
  
Eames waved her offer away. "The Nebraska authorities are contacting him."  
  
Amy nodded. Then, as though reluctantly giving into curiosity, "How did she die?"  
  
"Burnt to a crisp." Goren replied carelessly. "This an interesting library. Trashy mysteries, Schopenhauer. . ."  
  
"They're not mine. What do you mean?" Irritated, but not angry.  
  
"She was set on fire," Eames elaborated. "In her hotel room."  
  
Her hand passed over her eyes and she exhaled slowly. "Jesus. Oh, Karen."  
  
Goren ceased his examination of the bookshelves to watch her. She sat back in the chair; shoulders hunched very slightly, legs crossed. Her hand moved slowly from her face to come to rest with the other in her lap. She did not fidget or shift in her seat. She did not cry.  
  
Eames picked up the ball. "When was the last time you saw your cousin?"  
  
No hesitation. "Two nights ago. At her hotel room."  
  
Goren eased his way across the room. The shelves on that side contained few books. Mostly pictures and knick-knacks.  
  
Eames tried and failed to get Amy to focus on her. "You were in her hotel room?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Well I . . ." She was choosing her words carefully. "We argued, of course, and I said some mean things in anger. I dragged her out of here and put her in a cab and I told her that cab fare and money for therapy was the only cash she'd get from me. If she wanted more, she could sell her story to the tabloids."  
  
"You paid for her cab?" Amy nodded. "And why did you go see her?"  
  
Amy replied matter-of-factly. "I wanted her to know I was serious about the therapy. The conversation degenerated rapidly and the hooker next door ended up asking us to shut up. I left."  
  
Eames knit her eyebrows together. "I'm sorry, I'm still stuck on the therapy . . .?"  
  
"My cousin had problems. Drugs and other things. I . . ."  
  
"Miss Baldwin," Goren broke in. He turned, holding a glass-lidded box. "These were your brother-in-law's things?"  
  
"Rick's, yes." She answered.  
  
Goren looked at the box as he spoke. "There's his . . . badge, gun . . . it's a memorial. Usually, the family has to turn the gun in."  
  
A small smile appeared. "Yes, well, Alison - my sister-in-law - dared the police commissioner to have someone force her to give them up. One doesn't call Alison's bluffs."  
  
Goren smiled, placing the box down, "I understand, she wanted to remember him. . . I'm confused, though, there's a space for the handcuffs, an indentation on the velvet, but there aren't any cuffs."  
  
Amy stood and stepped to the box. "What? They were here two weeks ago, when I got back from L.A."  
  
"What were you doing in L.A.?" Goren asked conversationally, stepping back so she could look at the box.  
  
She answered automatically. "Wrapping up a film. I'm an actress. This isn't . . . This doesn't make sense."  
  
"Where were you between 5 and 7 this morning?"  
  
She met Goren's eyes. "I went for a walk. I don't sleep well these days. I left around 5:30, got back around 8."  
  
"Anyone see you?"  
  
"The doorman. I didn't stop anywhere."  
  
"We're gonna need you to come with us, Miss Baldwin." Eames stood.  
  
Amy turned, and looked at the officers, the shallow line between her brows the only outward expression of concern. "Need or require?" She asked steadily.  
  
"We'd really appreciate it." Eames deadpanned.  
  
Amy paused. Goren could see the wheels churning. To call the lawyer or not to call, to call or not to call. . . Although it had been his partner who spoke, she looked at him when she answered. "Okay. Just let me change. And leave that alone." She said sharply as Bobby laid his hand on a badly painted vase. "It's not even mine." 


	4. Chapter 4

She changed into a loose-fitting pair of jeans and t-shirt. Despite the 90- degree weather, she also brought a denim jacket. She sat in the back seat, ramrod-straight, slightly puzzled but otherwise inscrutable expression on her face as she stared out the window. Goren and Eames took turns trying to get her to engage in small talk about her profession, but she responded monosyllabically, in tones that, while polite, did not encourage further conversation.  
  
Still thinking about calling that lawyer, Goren thought. He wondered why she didn't. She had to have a lawyer and if she didn't, her sister-in-law, whose estate she was apparently making free use of, had to. If nothing else, she had an agent who would know a lawyer.  
  
Of course, otherwise intelligent and savvy people failed to take this simple step with some regularity. But why was she doing it? Trying to demonstrate her innocence? Pretending to naiveté? Too arrogant? All of the above?  
  
Back to 75% sure that she was guilty, Goren opened the door for her and walked beside her into the precinct, sending the not so subtle message of authority. She did not react, and when they arrived in the large open room, she turned slightly, eyebrow raised in inquiry.  
  
"Miss Baldwin, we just have a few things we need to do," Eames said, "Please wait in here." She gestured towards the open door to the interrogation room.  
  
She swallowed. "Can't I wait out here?"  
  
"We really need you to wait in there." Alex said, but Amy looked at Goren. He wasn't sure what she was looking for, but whether or not she found it, she shrugged, a small movement that may have been a twitch, and walked into the room. Not looking in the mirror, she selected a seat with her back facing it.  
  
Goren stepped in shaking his head. He stood behind the chair on the other side of the table. "No, I'm sorry, I need you to sit here."  
  
Challenge flashed briefly in her eyes, but she clenched her jaw ever so slightly, stood, and sat in the chair he held out for her. Scooting her in like a waiter at a five star restaurant, he smiled. "Thank you. Let us know if you need anything."  
  
She crossed her legs, set her bag down on the table, and then folded her hands in front of her. She glanced at herself in the mirror, then averted her eyes. She did not say anything as he retreated and closed the door. 


	5. Chapter 5

Present Day  
  
Amy stopped when she recognized him, standing about ten feet from the table. Her brow furrowed faintly, then the left corner of her mouth twitched up as she recognized him. She made the last few steps to the table, and sat across from him, handing her jacket and scarf to the waiter.  
  
"Detective Goren. What a surprise."  
  
Bobby's fidgeting wasn't all affectation this time. "Ms. Baldwin. What are you doing here?"  
  
"I used to come in all the time, before . . . before the accident. I never saw you back then."  
  
"I switched to this place a few months ago." Because another ghost had surprised him at his old place. Shades of Nicole, not something he wanted to associate with anyone, much less this woman. He pushed it aside.  
  
Amy smiled. "I'm glad. I have a feeling you're much more interesting than my book. Of course, I'm rereading the book. I never really got a chance to read you."  
  
Again, shades of Nicole, but at least this was fair. After all, he had pushed and prodded her, made her life miserable for a few hours. Surely she had the right to make him mildly uncomfortable. He detected no actual malice in her demeanor.  
  
"What book is it?"  
  
"Of Human Bondage."  
  
"Good book."  
  
"Yeah. What have you been up to?" She glanced down at her hands, then back at him, focusing somewhere on his cheek. Suddenly shy. He could sympathize.  
  
"Not much, the usual." Contradictory and patently false, as anyone who read the Times knew. Killing innocent suspects, catching murderers, not getting laid. You know, the usual. "You? You look good. Like you've gained weight."  
  
This got a real smile. Good, it was calculated to do so. Complement a woman for gaining weight, she'd forgive almost anything. Amy was no exception to this rule, and it didn't hurt that it was true.  
  
"Can you talk to my agent, please? I keep telling her I don't look natural unless I've got a little of the corn-fed Midwesterner look."  
  
"Didn't she see your movie?"  
  
She looked briefly puzzled. "Oh, yeah, that one. I did it before . . . you saw it?" Forced cheerfulness.  
  
"It was good. You were excellent." He looked at the breadbasket as the waiter laid it down. "Are you going to let me buy you dinner?"  
  
She looked down at the tablecloth, "Detective, I . . ."  
  
"Come on, it's the least I can do." He smiled, but she didn't see it. She was still studying the tablecloth.  
  
"You were doing your job, detective. I understand that." 


	6. Chapter 6

July 29, 12 Noon  
  
"Well, she likes you," Eames commented dryly as they sat down to a stack of faxes from Nebraska and Pennsylvania.  
  
Goren shrugged. "That may be true, actually. Her brother was the only family who ever took care of her. He hints in his book that their mother was extremely abusive. She probably . . . relies more on men than women."  
  
Eames raised an eyebrow. "But the letter from her cousin says she killed her father. And this," she held up a fax from Pennsylvania, "confirms it."  
  
Goren shrugged and began reading. First the information on Karen, from Nebraska. Drugs, prostitution, petty theft, domestic violence - typical small town loser. Nothing of real interest, no indication of past extortion schemes. But then, Amy and her brother were probably the only ones she knew worth blackmailing. And they were hardly likely to report it.  
  
He sighed and moved to the file from Pennsylvania. The death of Nathan Baldwin.  
  
2 PM  
  
Eames showed Detective Jones to her and Goren's workstation. He sat uneasily, glancing from one to the other.  
  
"Relax, Phil," Eames began, "We don't think you did anything."  
  
Phil did not relax. "You want to know about Amy. I have to tell you, I really like her. She's a great girl. Sweet. She's just not capable . . ."  
  
"Phil, she killed her father." Goren interrupted.  
  
"That was different. Self-defense. Anyway, I think you got the wrong person."  
  
Eames smiled. "Then convince us. You dated Amy."  
  
"About a year and a half ago. God, I fucked that up good."  
  
"How?"  
  
Phil grimaced. "I got . . . really curious about her. I met her through Rick, and he wouldn't talk about her past, and she . . . well, I never asked her directly. So I called the police department in that town in Pennsylvania she lived in. Got the report on her father's . . ."  
  
"And she got mad. Dumped you." Goren said.  
  
Phil nodded, shamefaced. "She and her brother still kept in touch with some of the cops down there. She . . . came to the station, confronted me about it. Except she, she didn't yell or cry. She just looked really . . . liked I'd ripped her heart out. She looked at me like she would have looked at her father. Anyway, I got defensive and said some things. Then she got mad. I'd never seen her go nonverbal before."  
  
Goren leaned in. "What did you say?"  
  
"I said I did it because I was worried, on account of her and her brother. I found them in bed together, but . . . look, she was scary mad. But she didn't even hit me."  
  
"In bed together?" Eames exchanged glances with Goren. "Can you describe that a little better?"  
  
Phil looked from one detective to the other, and then shook his head. Definitely not a good day to go to work. 


	7. Chapter 7

4:30 PM  
  
Eames and Goren watched their suspect from the observation room. She sat at the table, reading a book, legs crossed, making occasional notes in a stenographer's notebook. Concentrating on whatever task she was engaged in. Steady and calm.  
  
"She's cool." Eames said. "What are you thinking?"  
  
"She's the only one who makes sense but . . . she's a good actress. The only question is, what's she covering up?" HE tapped his finger against his lips. "I have to question her alone. You'll distract her, shake her up too much."  
  
"That's what we usually want, right? They start making mistakes?"  
  
"She won't make that kind of mistake. I need her to be thinking. The only way to convince her that she has no more options is to let her think them through to their . . . logical conclusion."  
  
She looked up when the detective stepped in, then closed both books, placing them to her right and folding her hands on the table. She watched him, meeting his eyes only briefly before focusing somewhere on his left cheek. Goren closed the door and circled around behind her, trying to catch a glimpse of the title.  
  
"Shakespeare for Idiots? As an actress, I would think you'd be above  
all that?"  
  
She had stiffened as he paused behind her, clearly not liking having a  
stranger in that close proximity, but she answered steadily. "It's a novel. An acquaintance wrote it and someone's thinking of making a movie about it."  
  
"A movie for you to star in?" He asked breathlessly.  
  
She pursed her lips at his mocking of Hollywood enthusiasm. She might mock it herself, of course, but she at least knew something about it from the inside. Her voice had dropped a few degrees when she decided it merited an answer. "Mostly, I'm interested in helping to write the screenplay."  
  
"A woman of many talents." He declared, circling the table and sitting directly across from her, slamming his own book on the table, then placing a stack of files beside it.. He leaned forward. "You helped write this, too, right? You finished it for your brother, after he died."  
  
"I helped the editor put the final touches on it. It was complete when he died." Her voice was not annoyed or defensive; it was matter of fact, almost off-hand. The only wavering was at the word "died", hardly surprising. Her eyes kept moving. His eyes, his nose, her hands, the top left hand corner of the mirror.  
  
Goren leaned back in his chair, flipping through the book. "I loved your brother's writing, so I bought this as soon as it came out. It's a great book. Smart, compelling, and only minimally voyeuristic." He glanced at her, looking for any reaction to the voyeurism remark. There was none. She was looking at him - his chin now - politely expectant. Either she was acting, or she was too well aware of the aspects of the genre to even be insulted by the remark. "I especially liked the personal preface, disclosing his own bias. Most things like that are self-pitying and whiny." He mimicked, "My childhood sucked, I deserve something to make up for it, boo-hoo."  
  
She actually smiled at this. "Daytime TV at its worst."  
  
"Exactly." He smiled, too, creating a moment of fellow feeling that was only partly a put-on. "He just lays a few sketchy details out there, says some of his own experience's parallel his subject's , including feelings of guilt at having left someone else - in his case, you - behind to suffer a worse fate."  
  
She wasn't smiling now. Her eyebrows were drawn almost imperceptibly closer together, creating a small wrinkle at the bridge of her nose. Her eyes at stopped shifting and she was know contemplating his tie.  
  
"But then he throws in that comment about having gone back for you. Saved you, in fact. It didn't fit with the rest of the preface."  
  
Her lips pressed into a thin line.  
  
"Did you add it?"  
  
She answered coolly, eyes still focused on his tie. "Yes. I wanted him," she paused and apparently rephrased. To be more precise, he thought. "It was how he should have remembered himself and it is how I want him remembered."  
  
"You want to guard his memory?"  
  
"I want to be sure the information out there is accurate." "I understand." He said hurriedly. "You want to be sure people can see him . . . in the best light. Control his reputation."  
  
The last sentence was perhaps a mistake. Later, he would pinpoint its completion as the moment Amy realized exactly where he was heading. She knew before that she was a possible suspect, but she had been relatively relaxed, for her, as though she was thoroughly convinced that he had no coherent theory and thus lacked any real commitment to proving her guilt. Now she could see at least the beginnings of a plausible theory and it worried her.  
  
That was not in itself incriminating. He would be worried if someone had begun to construct a theory of his guilt that walked and talked like it was plausible, even if it would ultimately prove false. To be accused is to be convicted in such cases.  
  
"I don't . . . suffer the delusion that I can control anything beyond myself," she finally said softly.  
  
"Of course you don't, of course." He stood again, making his way back to her side of the table. He pulled his chair beside her and straddled it, leaning too close to her. She stiffened again, but did not flinch away. She turned her head towards him. "That would be profoundly egotistical." He craned his neck, trying to get her to meet his gaze. She kept shifting her own, jaw clenching in annoyance. "You have trouble meeting my eyes," he observed slyly.  
  
"It's a conditioned response to authority."  
  
"Because of your parents? Did they not like it when you met their eyes?"  
  
"They didn't like it when I woke up in the morning." She answered flatly. "Meeting their eyes just aggravated them."  
  
"It made you more visible. That's why you sit so still." He nodded. "Trying not to offend, to become part of the background. And yet you're an actress. I find that curious. You're supposed to be very good."  
  
"I work very hard."  
  
"Still, it's an odd profession for someone who spends so much time trying to fade into the background."  
  
"Not really." She paused, again choosing her words. "When my brother took me away, after my mother died, I was 11 and a total basket case. I couldn't express my own feelings or thoughts, verbally or otherwise. I went to therapists, but nothing helped until Claire, my brother's first wife, had me read a poem. It gave her the idea of drama. If I could express other people's feelings, she figured I could learn to express my own in ways people would understand."  
  
"Makes it a little artificial, doesn't it?"  
  
"All the world's a stage. We express things according to conventions and rules that have developed over time. It's called communication, it's necessary to order our world." 


	8. Chapter 8

"Order is important to you."  
  
Amy waited a moment before answering. "Not order, but coherence and clarity. If I can make myself understood to others, that means I can understand myself. What does this have to do with Karen?" A faint hint of annoyance had crept into her voice.  
  
Goren leaned back and nodded. "You're right." He slammed his palms against the back of his chair and stood. "You're right, so let's talk about Karen." He took up a position leaning against the mirror. "How well did you know her? You two grew up in the same town, she was your cousin. You must have known her at school; she'd come over and babysit you. Like a big sister."  
  
A bitter smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Her parents knew what my parents were. They never let her near them or me."  
  
"But you saw her at school. She was older, more popular, and you were invisible."  
  
"She was pretty. And she had friends. But I didn't . . . I can't say how popular she was. It never really registered."  
  
Goren's eyes narrowed. "You weren't jealous? Angry that this girl, this relative of yours, had a life you could only imagine? You'd look in windows and wonder what it was like to be in normal family."  
  
"Warmth," she murmured. "I envied the warmth. But I envied everybody." She looked up from her hands, meeting his challenge. "The fact that she was my cousin didn't mean anything to me then. I had nothing to do with her family and I was too . . . consumed by the immediate problems to look for someone else to blame."  
  
"No, that came later," he moved forward and picked up the book. "That's what this is about. The Volcano Next Door, it's a reference to the stereotypical virgin sacrifice in primitive villages. Your brother just used that detective's story to present an argument about the community's awareness and complicity in the . . . terrible things that go on behind closed doors."  
  
Amy nodded. "If it takes a village to raise a child, it takes a village to fuck one up."  
  
"Not exactly a revolutionary concept," he began pacing. "But Karen's father, your uncle, you said he knew. He should have acted, should have given you the same life Karen got."  
  
The bitter tug at the corners of Amy's mouth was back. "No. No. He was weak and he should have done something, but Karen's life . . . It wasn't a bed of roses."  
  
Goren stopped. He was standing at the narrow end of the table on Amy's right. He stepped back and leaned over so he could see her face. "She had problems, you said. Problems you were willing to pay to help fix. What do you mean?"  
  
Amy contemplated her hands for a moment before answering. "My mother died when I was 11. That's when my brother took me away. I went to live with him and Claire in Chicago. A year later, when Karen was about 16, she came to stay with us. She had run away and her father, when he heard where she was, agreed to let her stay. He was a good and decent man and he loved her, and he knew he wasn't equipped for her . . . problems. Her parents had divorced and her mother remarried. Her stepfather . . . he molested her. Went to jail for it, and everything, but . . . you know what that does to a person."  
  
"How long did she stay with you?"  
  
"About two months. She ran off with a boyfriend, the one she'd run away from Nebraska because of, and stole some money and jewelry."  
  
Bobby tapped the book on the table. "So . . . did you ever see her after that?"  
  
Amy nodded simply. "She came to New York about three or three and a half years ago, not long after my brother remarried."  
  
"She tried to blackmail him?"  
  
"My brother wouldn't say much about their first conversation, so I don't know. But she did ask for money and he told her that the only thing he'd give her was therapy. She stayed with us for a few days, Alison got her into a treatment program, and Ben was going to pay for it. She stayed at the program for a week, then she ran away again."  
  
"She was an ungrateful bitch, wasn't she?"  
  
Amy did not rise to the bait, but answered evenly. "She was troubled."  
  
Bobby shrugged, then sat back down on the chair beside Amy. "Miss Baldwin, you and your brother were very devoted to each other." She nodded. "In fact, he would look at you like you were the sun coming up in the morning." 


	9. Chapter 9

He had thought her expression had been calm and steady before. Now it froze. She opened her mouth, closed it, then said. "You've been speaking to Philip."  
  
Goren went on as though she hadn't spoken. "You lived with your brother continuously, through all the moves, except for four years in New Haven. You lived with him when Karen came back, after he remarried. You were what, 24 when they married and his wife was only 26? Most newlyweds . . ."  
  
"Fuck you," she whispered. She had begun to shake perceptibly.  
  
"Phil said he'd found you and your brother in bed together. Fully clothed, but still. That's a little odd."  
  
"He m-m-misunderstood. I was . . . having an an-anxiety attack. I g-g-get cold and Ben was . . ."  
  
"Comforting you. In bed." Goren supplied reasonably. "I could buy that, except, well, you know what Karen was saying, right? She claimed to have seen it."  
  
"She was . . . lying."  
  
"She claims he was with her, too. These things are really hard to disprove, and you have to admit, you and your brother . . .there was something funny there. I mean," he leaned closer. She was shaking spastically, fighting to control her motions, "everyone knows you'd anything for each other, you adored each other. How much did your brother adore you, Miss Baldwin?"  
  
"No . . . N-n-n-no. He . .. was an . . never . . ."  
  
Goren stood and shrugged. "Hey, I'm not judging. You and Ben had horrible childhoods, a shared past that would make most people run screaming in the other direction. You were close. You needed each other. You understood each other. These things can get . . . complicated. So what if your relationship was a little unconventional? It's not fair to expect normalcy from you. And besides, the proof is in the pudding. Whatever it was worked. Your brother and you are respected, admired. He was a great writer; you're earning some acclaim as an actress. And you work with traumatized children. He helped you, you helped him. So what if you were a little . . . close."  
  
Amy stood and banged her fists on the table. "It's a b-b-big step from unusual rel . . . relationship to, to, to . . ."  
  
"Incest?" He supplied. "I agree. But once it's out there . . ."  
  
Amy sank back down, still shaking, and slumped in her chair.  
  
Bobby pulled his chair back around to the other side of the table. He pulled a photocopy of the letter they found in the hotel room from one of the folders and pushed it over to Amy. She didn't even glance at it.  
  
"I read the letter," he said seriously. "You're right, for the most part it's bullshit. I mean, you killed your father, that's true. But it was in self-defense, and that'll be rehashed in the press sooner or later anyway. I read the police report. There's not even a shadow of a doubt about what happened and the grand jury declined to indict, so who cares? I don't know where she gets this stuff about your brother killing your mother, but there's no indication that that's even a possibility, so . . . And as for burning down the house you grew up in . . . Well, it was your property and no one got hurt, so no harm no foul. But the incest, that'll stick."  
  
"It's a lie," she whispered viciously.  
  
Goren shrugged. "So what? You've been to Hollywood, your brother was a reporter. The truth isn't necessarily what sells, or what people believe. This allegation would taint your reputation, possibly destroy your nascent career. Unless you wanted to act exclusively in Lifetime Original Movies, that is."  
  
"You over . . . I've never sought . . . Even if it c-c-could destroy my career, I . . . Being big in Hollywood or New York was never that important to me."  
  
"You're an actress."  
  
"I . . . I have other possibilities. And I have money from my . . . brother.  
  
Killing is . . . a terrible thing. My reputation or my . . . theoretical career isn't worth it."  
  
"What about your brother's?"  
  
She stopped shaking and looked at him silently.  
  
Goren moved Ben Baldwin's book so that it sat beside the photocopied letter. "His reputation is all that's left of him in the world. The critics love him. The press loves him. All that goes away if this gets out. His name becomes something that's whispered with a smirk by gossips and voyeurs. He disappears."  
  
"His reputation . . . is not the same as his honor." She said quietly.  
  
"Yeah, but a ruined reputation hurts. And whose gonna listen to your defense of him? You're his victim!"  
  
"No." Very softly. So softly he could barely hear it.  
  
"You would do anything to protect him."  
  
"He would never want me to kill for him." Flatly, no hesitation or  
stammer.  
  
"No. No. Okay, let's get back to that. In all seriousness, I really  
like this book." He flipped through until he got to the last chapter. "And I love the way he finishes it. He calls the chapter 'Apologia'. It's an apology in the classic sense of justification and explanation for any pain he might have caused. Its subject matter's curious, given how your cousin died."  
  
Amy looked at her hands.  
  
"It's interesting that the entire apologia focuses on the need for  
fire. The premise that catharsis is necessary for true healing. And he talks about the basic human understanding of that in the symbolism and use of fire," he read from the book " 'Across cultures and throughout history, fire has been used to destroy disease, purge sin, and wipe the slate clean. It is it's very destructive aspect that makes healing and ultimately survival possible.' And he talks about how it's viewed as necessary even in cases of blamelessness and that communities tend to use fire against the perceived sources of the stain, in order to free everyone else from infection. It's really a very interesting and well-reasoned chapter. One would almost think that whoever killed your cousin was trying to both save her soul and wipe the slate clean."  
  
"Thank you." She looked up, meeting his gaze now, unflinching. 


	10. Chapter 10

He'd thrown the bomb, and it fizzled. "Excuse me?"  
  
"Thank you." More distinctly. Her eyes didn't stray from his and now it was his turn to want to look away. "I co-wrote that chapter, Detective. I crafted its reasoning, its rhetorical strategy. You misquoted, or misparaphrased, me."  
  
"Enlighten me."  
  
She spoke in clipped tones. Not exactly angry, but . . . righteous. "You are implying that the chapter is legitimizing the idea that a community or individual can short-cut its way through catharsis. In fact, it says the opposite." She reached across and seized the book so quickly he didn't even have time to grasp it reflexively. She flipped through a few pages. " 'In a figurative sense, self-immolation, with all of the attendant pain, is a necessary facet of healing. This is as true for a community as it is for an individual. Despite society's pathological attempts to circumvent this necessity through the use of innocent and not so innocent scapegoats, we are left with the inescapable conclusion that catharsis is not something that can be imposed or achieved vicariously.' I wrote those sentences. I believe them. Even if I killed my cousin, my worldview would not justify burning her in order to purge my shame or hers."  
  
He replied automatically. "Miss Baldwin, it would have sent a message to the community that offered you up as a scapegoat by turning a blind eye to your suffering. Besides, you did burn down your childhood home." But now he was waiting for her to refute him, waiting for her to drive a nail in his theory's coffin.  
  
She snorted. "Ben and I burnt down the house - which belonged to me and my brother at that point - because it felt good. It appealed to the irrational need for a visible symbol of our victory over our past. But it was a house. And as for the message that might be a reason to kill her in that way, if I were a sociopath."  
  
She leaned in, a challenging look on her face. "You had me intimidated for a while there, Detective, but . . . I didn't kill my cousin. I didn't want to kill her. I had no real reason to kill her. What's reputation? It's insubstantial, temporary, by it's very nature inaccurate. And the people who matter, they would know the truth anyway. You're right, that her 'revelations' would have caused me pain, but a lot of things cause me pain. I suffer, I cope, I heal, and I go on.  
  
"Killing my father was the most disempowering moment of my life, and that was completely justified. Believe me when I tell you that I could not do that again for any other reason than to go on breathing. But I don't think that you actually believe that I killed her, which begs the question of why you're wasting time."  
  
They contemplated each other for a long time, silently weighing the  
next step. He was half shocked that she didn't walk out. But then, she needed an answer from him. She was right, he didn't believe she killed Karen, but he could think of no one else. Which left only one viable alternative.  
  
"Self-immolation."  
  
Amy blinked. "What?"  
  
"Self . . . Amy, I read in her file that Karen's mother killed her self after the abuse came to light. Did she leave a note?"  
  
Amy understood now. Her eyes widened and she shook her head at the thought. But not to the question. "Yes . . . Umm, my brother said she mailed two letters, one to her ex-husband, my uncle, and one to Karen." Her jaw slackened in grief. "Oh, God."  
  
"She . . . she killed herself when she found out about her husband's . . . Oh, my God." Realization dawned. The blood drained from her face and her jaw slackened in grief. "How could she burn herself?"  
  
Goren answered without thinking. "She drank herself into a near stupor, handcuffed herself . . . She was alone in the study, wasn't she?"  
  
"For five minutes while I got my purse and phoned a cab."  
  
"She handcuffed her self to the bed and kicked over the candle. Miss Baldwin, I want to search your mail."  
  
Amy nodded. "Yeah, Yes, of course." 


	11. Chapter 11

2 AM  
  
They offered to take her home, but she insisted on waiting while they went to the Post Office and retrieved the next morning's mail. Or this morning's. It was 2 AM by the time he came back. She was sitting bolt upright in the interrogation room, staring at herself in the mirror.  
  
"You found it." She said flatly.  
  
"She mailed it yesterday, I'm sorry, the day before yesterday. We didn't open anything else. Her fingerprints were on it."  
  
"Oh, Jesus," her hand passed over her face. When it fell back on the table, her eyes were red rimmed and moist. "The I should have . . ."  
  
"There was nothing you could have done," he said, the trite words ringing hollow in his ears.  
  
She stood, picking up her bag. "Do me a favor. Don't prophesy based on less than twenty hours of knowledge of my family. Tell my uncle . . . Tell I'm sorry. If he . . . it doesn't matter."  
  
"I'm sure he'd like to hear it from you."  
  
"Interrogation's over, Detective," she said wearily. Here be dragons  
and they're none of your business.  
  
"I'm sorry if I caused you any pain." He mumbled at her back.  
  
She stopped but didn't turn. "You were being a bastard, but don't think that anything you could do would amplify my pain. You just aren't that powerful."  
  
She left him like that, with devastating works spoken so simply. No bitterness, just cutting truth. 


	12. Chapter 12

Present Day  
  
"Did you hear me? I understand. I still think you were being a bastard, but I understand."  
  
Bobby didn't know quite what to say. He fidgeted with his menu.  
  
Amy rocked slightly, then smiled at the candle. "Let's pretend none of that happened. We're indifferent acquaintances."  
  
"Been reading too much Jane Austen lately?" He commented before he could stop himself.  
  
"Watching it, actually. I have a friend who's getting married and instead of the traditional evening of debauchery, which I've never enjoyed, the maid of honor decided to have a Pride and Prejudice party. Lots and lots of Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy. I must admit, he's pretty hot."  
  
"So do stars still get star struck?"  
  
"I'll let you know if I ever become one."  
  
Bobby smiled winningly. "I think I read somewhere that the film you just wrapped is slated to be a sleeper hit."  
  
She made buzzing sounds. "Sound and fury, signifying nothing. I'm currently unemployed and that's all I know for sure."  
  
The spoke of the small things one was supposed to speak about with strangers. Books, current events, travel. A mention of Prague spurred a conversation about the fall of the wall. It made Bobby feel a little old - she had been 12 at the time, while he had already been serving in the Army for a few years. But she kept pace with him, no mean feat under any circumstances.  
  
He realized early on that she wasn't drinking, but after his third glass of wine he no longer cared. And when she touched his hand, lingering just long enough to assure him that it wasn't chance, he realized that while he might be able to blame anything that happened later on the alcohol, she was supposedly in her right mind. It was flattering and frightening. He tried to tell himself that it was a bad idea, but . . . what the hell?"  
  
"Walk me home," she whispered, leaning over the empty dessert plates after the waiter had taken his credit card.  
  
"To Park Avenue?"  
  
She laughed, "No, I have a place around the corner. Please?" Playful desire and . . . need. She needed . . . He chose not to follow that line of thought further.  
  
"Alright." 


	13. Epilogue: Coherence

Amy understood.  
  
The moment she saw him standing in the hall of the apartment that wasn't hers, she understood.  
  
He looked at her, at her surroundings, at her movements, like she looked at the rest of humanity, trying to figure out how they all fit together, what secrets they held. In her case, she was looking for the unattainable normalcy of quiet families and ordinary traumas. Perhaps he had looked for that, too, but now he was drawn to the equally fascinating ab-normalcy of gut wrenching tragedy and monstrous secrets. She knew that curiosity, too, the drive to be reassured that others were worse off, or at least as messed up as you, and that maybe they held the secrets to staving off incipient madness and constructing a life that made sense.  
  
Living coherently, she and her brother had called it, and they had constructed their own set of secrets and rules to attain it. She had come to understand that all the walking wounded who survived and went on had their own rules, their own "coping mechanisms" as the psychologists termed it in their inadequate clinical language. She preferred rules, maybe parameters, because they implied an intentionality that mere coping mechanisms lacked. Multiple personalities were coping mechanisms, for God's sake.  
  
She wondered what his rules were, how much he had circumscribed his own behavior and thoughts. Had he focused them inward, as she had, or outward, as the detective her brother had written about had? Both, she thought, both and then some.  
  
She understood his frustration on realizing that the library, a collection of such randomness as to surpass any organization, was not hers. That nothing in that apartment (except the bedroom, which he knew he would not see) was hers. One's possessions give hints to one's character; one's books give hints to one's thoughts. She almost took pity on him and told him that she had read most of the books, trashy mysteries, Schopenhauer, and all.  
  
But she didn't. He would misunderstand, and she was too aware of the precariousness of her own position to risk misunderstanding.  
  
She had not lied when she said she always strove to be understood. She wanted understanding above all else, but it eluded her. He must be aware of the same need in himself. Why, then, did he use inscrutability as his shield?  
  
It was so transparent. That collection of ticks and eccentricities were not all artifice, were not even mostly artifice. All the world's a stage, and he acted the part of a man who had constructed his pathologies into a weapon. And they were, but that was less intentional than he tried to make it appear.  
  
She understood.  
  
She could have used that understanding, struck back at him, inflicted wound for wound. Cut deeper than he had ventured to cut her. But that was one of her rules. Never give into that impulse, because the appetite for tit- for-tat never ended, and it could be so easily displaced.  
  
Displaced aggression had to be one of the better theories modern psychology had espoused. Displaced aggression, displaced fear, displaced love, displaced curiosity. She wondered whom he was really probing when he dismantled suspects and witnesses. Wondered whose truth was too mysterious or too awful for him to puzzle out directly.  
  
Mother, Father, Wife, or Lover. There were only so many relationships with the power to destroy oneself if the truth was too well known.  
  
She understood.  
  
Amy knew that her last words would injure him, but they were also the only convincing forgiveness she could offer. And that purpose was sufficient justification. One should never use the truth just to injure, but sometimes injury was the necessary byproduct and sometimes it was the very instrumentality by which the ultimate benefits would be achieved.  
  
He was transparent, and she could have gone farther, could have torn him down as he attempted to do to her. Men were always more vulnerable to that destruction, with their flimsy pretensions to invulnerability.  
  
That was another rule. Always be vulnerable, let yourself hurt. It's when you don't hurt, when you become numb, that the cold of malice and cruelty has crept in and you become what created the need for all these rules in the first place.  
  
Amy knew that he would understand all of this, perhaps already did - he was older, after all - in a way that only her brother had approached. She wondered if he ever let an interrogation become a conversation, with its noncompetitive give and take. Wondered if he would make an exception for her.  
  
She wondered if he'd learned that inflexible rules were as sure a road to madness as no rules at all. Probably. He could never have survived this long if he hadn't.  
  
She understood, without benefit of any details or police files. And when she saw him in the restaurant, sitting at her old table, waiting for a stranger to come and finally reveal to him the puzzle pieces he was missing, she knew he understood, too. 


End file.
